Wolf Like Me
by ramenwriter
Summary: Shameless AU, imagine a world in which dragons never flew, Torrhen Stark never knelt, and his dynasty still rules the North. An Arya-centric fic, with possible major character deaths, angst and eventual romance (Gendry/Arya). Chapters 6/9ish
1. Prologue - Butterflies and Hurricanes

_AN: Shameless AU, imagine a world in which dragons never flew, Torrhen Stark never knelt, and his dynasty still rules the North. This is an Arya-centric fic, with possible major character deaths, angst and some eventual romance. Enjoy, and please, please review. It would mean the world to me. _

* * *

The wind didn't treat her gently, and the Princess loved it for that. It beat across her face in angry blasts, carrying sprays of salty foam. Her chapped skin stung with each new gust, but Arya never looked away.

The sea was nothing like she expected. It made her feel tiny. For miles and miles all she could see was navy waves boiling up against the ship. She was minuscule, but she was free.

Even after living on the Dornish coast for five years, she had never been so far out to sea. Until now her trips had all been on pleasure barges with her betrothed. She had cared for Ned Dayne deeply, but never as more than a friend. He was always kind to her, partly out of love and partly out of fear. Arya's temper and stubbornness was no secret at Starfall. Ned had given her Nymeria, a Dornish sand steel, as a betrothal gift, and together they had explored Dorne from North to South. Outside of court she could dress as she wanted, go where she please, and even practice swordplay in the yard. Ned had joined her to spar a few times, but grew sullen once he realized that he could never beat her.

Arya could not have asked for a better life than the one she led in Dorne, but try as she might she didn't feel at home. She couldn't make herself love Ned as anything more than a friend either. When he has kissed her, she had sat as still as a statue in the Winterfell crypts. She never wanted him, and he knew it. Only weeks before their marriage was to be held, Ned contracted greyscale. Arya was ashamed to feel a sense of relief wash over her when she heard. She didn't want him to die, of course, but she didn't want to be his lady wife either. All Arya had ever wanted was freedom, and now, she had it.

Her heart sang with every gust of wind that propelled them North; to her roots, her family, and her home.

* * *

Robb had been sent to White Harbor to meet her. Arya scarcely recognized her brother; when she left, he had been 16, barely a man, lanky and awkward. Now he was even taller, but well muscled and broad of shoulder. He looked like an heir to the North should, all muscle and raw power. His Tully eyes hadn't changed though, they still sparked and danced as always. He scooped her off her feet and whirled her around when she ran off the pier and into his arms.

Her legs were shaky from the sea, but Robb helped steady her as he admired Nymeria. Arya had grown to love her dearly, and rode her as well as the best of men in Westeros could have.

Leaning on her brother, Princess Arya breathed in the fresh Northern air and felt truly alive for the first time in five years. She was home.

She arrived at Winterfell late on a snowy afternoon. The dogs ran from the kennels, barking at her scent. The older ones lapped her face and hands when she vaulted off her horse. The younger ones stayed back, wary of the newcomer who smelled of salt and Dornish spices.

The King in the North stood at the entrance to the great hall, a smile gracing his usually stern face. Arya ran into her fathers arms, enveloping herself in his musky scent as if she was a child once again. She never wanted to leave his embrace.

* * *

The next few days flew by in a flurry of embraces and welcomes. Her Queen mother and Sansa had only waited long enough to offer their condolences for her betrothed before eagerly stripped her of her Dornish riding crop and dressing her like a proper Princess. Little Rickon growled at sight of her in a gown, not recognizing her until she chased him down and wrestled him onto the floor. Robb and Bran couldn't contain their laughter at the sight of her. Her stifling corset and intricate braids made Arya antsy, but her mother looked so happy that she couldn't bare to disappoint her. Not for the first few days, at least.

Arya wanted to spend as much time as possible with her father, but a King had duties. To keep him around she had even taken to attending the council meetings with him and Robb. She listened with interest to lengthy discussions of poor harvests in Deepwood Moat, of pirates raiding the stony shore, of Wildling attacks on the gift... It was all fascinating until it came to talks of marriage. Some widowed Lady Hornwood had been turning away every suitor for fear that he would take her castle, until Roose Bolton's bastard took her in the night, forced her to swear marriage oaths under sword point, then sealed the deal. Arya left before she heard the rest of the story, annoyed at the Lady for not taking matters into her own hands like she would have.

She sulked away aimlessly, wishing her father had more time to spend with her. Maester Luwin ran by her holding a raven, but didn't even bother to spare her a look. The scullery maids in the yard stopped their whispering as she walked by, and she felt her face grow hot when she noticed that many of the men stared at her openly. Why do they treat me like I am a stranger? She wondered, I am their princess, this is my home. I belong here more than any of them.

Arya felt a sudden longing to be alone, and found herself striding towards the Godswood. She drew her breath when she saw it, the white weirwoods standing proud and tall amidst small snowdrifts. She looked into their blood red eyes and felt a shiver wrack her spine. It felt as if they were looking at her, calling her name, welcoming her back. _Arya, Arya, Arya_, she could feel them thinking. _Arya, Arya, Arya..._

She didn't know how much time had passed before the voices woke her. She peered around the heart tree and saw her parents. Arya wanted to call out, but the look on her father's face stopped her.

"He's dying," her father whispered, clutching a letter, "I always thought Robert would outlive me, hoped he would outlive me, and even as we speak, he lies on his deathbed. Killed by a boar. How can this be? Tell me I'm dreaming, Caitlin, tell me this isn't really happening."

Arya watched her mother struggling to find the right words, eventually giving up and embracing Ned instead, burying her face in her husbands chest. "You can still go to him," Arya heard her murmur, "All men die, Ned. The God's are good to give you this chance to say your goodbyes."

She never saw her father cry before, and she never would. The heart tree cried blood red tears for him, raining leaves like bloodstained hands on her parents.

* * *

_AN: Ehem. I'm absolutely unoriginal when it comes to naming chapters and stories, but I think that they really do need names. So, haha, I'm naming them after songs that I like. Songs that may or may not be related to the chapters._

_Wolf Like Me_ is by TV on the Radio, _Butterflies and Hurricanes _is by Muse.


	2. Your Bones

_AN: Shameless AU. Imagine a world in which dragons never flew, Torrhen Stark never knelt, and his dynasty still rules the North. This is an Arya-centric fic, with possible major character deaths, angst and some eventual romance. Enjoy, and please, please review. It would mean the world to me._

* * *

Arya sat in her father's solar, fidgeting with her gown. She felt stupid wearing it, but Sansa had insisted. It was a ridiculous navy, silken thing, with a fitted bodice and gold embroidery on the hems. She pretended to be examining the stitches so as not to look King Ned in the eye. She felt terrible for unintentionally invading his privacy in the godswood, and knew her eyes would betray the truth if he could see them.

Sansa slapped her hand as she began picking a golden rose out of the stitching. Arya glared back venomously. Robb and Bran laughed at them, and Rickard growled. Arya was about to direct a snarky comment at her sister when her father cleared his throat, silencing them all.

"There has been a raven from King's Landing," he said slowly, his voice deep and grim. "The Southron King, my friend, and my foster brother, Robert, is on his deathbed. He was injured by a boar in a hunting accident. The maesters say he will be lucky if he lives a few more months."

Arya could recognize the pain in voice and face. The blow had hit him hard.

"He would like to see me one last time, and I have decided to pay him my farewells. We depart on the morrow. Girls and Bran, I would like you to come as well. It is time you make acquaintance with the southern court." Sansa looked as if she was about to piss herself with excitement, Arya thought grumpily. "Robb, my son, you know there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. It is my wish that during our absence you rule in my stead and act as Protector in the North. I leave Rickon in your care, he is too young to accompany us on this is much to be done, Bran, Sansa, Septa Mordane will assist you in your packing. Arya, please take Rickon. I wish to speak to Robb alone."

Arya couldn't bear it any longer. "Father, I need to speak with you."

The King looked vaguely troubled. "Very well, Robb, take your brother. I see Arya won't rest until I hear her out.

The moment they were alone she ran to him like she was a child again, throwing her arms around his neck. "Don't go papa, please," she begged, fruitlessly, "I've only just returned, don't take me away from home again."

He sighed and mussed her hair. "Arya, you have always been my Northern child. Forgive me for ever sending you so far away from here. But you know I must go, it is my last duty to Robert. But you are not bound to me and my honor, if you wish to stay, you may remain with Robb and Rickon."

The princess didn't answer, but buried her face deeper into the crook of his neck. "It may be better not to leave your brothers alone just yet."

"I'll stay," Arya replied, pulling back to look him in the eye, "But I'll miss you."

* * *

They started out the next day before the crack of dawn; Sansa dressed in her finest travelling clothes, giggling and tossing her hair prettily. She gave her sister a ladylike embrace, which Arya uncomfortably returned. Bran laughed amiably at her awkwardness, sitting tall on his handsome bay. Arya was shocked at how mature he looked.

Her mother grasped her shoulders in her small dainty hands, and kissed both of her cheeks, whispering in her ear, "Arya, be the Lady of Winterfell for me. I know you can." She turned away in a flutter of skirts before the princess could protest.

Over their heads, banners whipped in the early morning breeze, proudly bearing the silver grey Stark direwolf on a field of white. They looked about as bright as he Princess felt. She hated that her newly reunited family was being torn apart once again.

Robb looked nearly as grim as her father when the King presented his son with Ice, the sword of the Northern kings. Her brother clutched the hilt so tightly that his knuckles turned white as he watched them ride away, following the Kingsroad into the horizon. They were flanked by their guard of at least a hundred men, but Arya still worried for their safety. No, she thought, there is peace in the North. The Ironmen will not stray from the shore, and our bannermen will protect them on their way.

Rickon didn't seem to share her convictions. The littlest prince cried and howled after the retreating party, "They aren't ever coming back," he sobbed, "They aren't ever coming back..."

Arya tried to hold him, but he squirmed away. When she finally managed to distract him by tossing him a wooden sword and begining to spar, the sun was already high in the morning sky.

That night, the Great Hall was eerily empty without her father's safe presence, her mother's gentle smiles, Bran's witty comments, and Sansa's perpetual scolding. Rickon's cries rang in her ears, erasing the clamor of the Hall. Robb met her eyes, and she knew he felt the same. But he is Protector of the North, she thought, he has to stay strong. I have to stay strong for him.

Arya gave Robb a wan smile, and he returned it. Surprisingly, she felt better. She was still part of a pack, even if it was separated. She was a Stark, and Starks do not break.

* * *

Bran woke with a start. He looked around his small room and shivered. It was shabby, but clean enough. His sheets smelled of heather and smoke, glaringly white in the starlight. Nothing had changed, but he felt different. He couldn't seem to shake off the remnants of his nightmare. It hadn't been like his other dreams, it was frighteningly realistic. He walked to his window, peering out at the moonlit landscape. It seemed normal enough.

A light flashed on the hill beyond the stable and he felt tingles running up his spine. An answering flicker came from the shed near the stable. In a matter of seconds Bran donned his cloak and found himself in the adjourning room - Sansa's. He pressed his hand across her mouth and shook her awake. Her eyes were frantic as he suppressed her scream. "Shush, it's me," he whispered. She relaxed considerably under his grip. "Sansa, we need to go; I had a dream."

"So that's what this is about, a nightmare? Bran, you are far too old for this nonsense." Still, she kept her voice low, and spoke without a trace of annoyance or amusement. Bran knew she trusted him. Sansa threw her dark green riding hood over her silken nightgown and followed him into the hall. The floorboards creaked gently as they slunk across them, but to Bran it sounded like Giants jousting. They made their way to the common room, a long and drafty space with a row of kegs on one end and a fireplace on the other. Dying red embers crackled away in the hearth, masking Sansa's whisper. "Aren't we going to tell father and mother?" Bran didn't answer with words, but his sad, blue eyes revealed the truth she was afraid to hear.

They stole out into the cold night air quickly, but silently. Bran could hear Sansa's teeth chattering as they crept into the gloomy forest, away from the hill, the stable, and his father's men. "Bran, shouldn't we get our horses, some food maybe?" His only answer was to quicken his pace, nearly jogging through the woods. When they heard a sharp scream from the direction of the inn the princess stopped, her eyes brimming with tears, but her brother pulled her on.

The horizon was lightening from deep indigo to grey when they finally reached the river. Bran shimmied out of his outer-clothes and boats, tying them up in his cloak. Sansa begrudgingly followed suit. The freezing water nipped at their slight bodies, chilling them to the bone. Bran hated to see his sister's lips nearly as blue as her eyes, her pale skin covered in goose pimples, as she waded beside him through the chest deep water, but he knew it must be done. The alternative was far worse.

They couldn't bear it much longer, he knew. The water was growing rougher and, although he didn't think it possible, colder. They wasted no time dressing as they emerged from the river, clutching their scant clocks to their shivering bodies. Bran held Sansa's hand as they headed out of the forest, away from the rising sun. He thought he could make out a mountainous reach in the distance, and prayed to the Gods that he was not disoriented. Fatigued though they were, they pressed onward, two wolves against the world.

* * *

Being King had accustomed Ned to late nights. He worked best when the rest of the world slept, with only the noise of distant wolves or crickets to keep him company. Tonight was no exception. He kissed his wife on the brow as she mumbled in her sleep, a small smile on her sweet lips. I am truly the luckiest man in the world, he thought.

He tiptoed into the adjoining room, his makeshift study. The inn at the crossroads was by no means a fancy affair, but Masha Heddle, the sourleaf chewing mistress, had been happy to offer the King the best quarters available. It was a small and tidy suite, well away from the rest of the lively inn. He briefly wondered if it was wise to sleep so far from Bran and Sansa, whose quarters were in the main wing of the building. He shook away his unease, knowing it was unnecessary. They had not yet crossed the border into the South, and even then, he would be an honored guest of the Southron King, virtually untouchable.

I have better things to worry about, he thought, pondering over Robb's report from Winterfell. He had only been gone for a few weeks, but already the pirate attacks on the Stony Shore had worsened, and Ned wondered, not for the first time, if Balon Greyjoy was involved. The Lord had sworn he wasn't, but the King was uneasy all the same. He wrote to his son, instructing him to call the Manderly and Umber banners to purge the pirates from the shore, and to alert Lady Mormont of the unrest. To make things worse, the far north was being plagued by rogue wildling attacks, and the Nightswatch complained of disappearing rangers and a climbing desertion rate. Ned sighed deeply; sleep would not come easily tonight, he knew.

A curt knock disrupted his musings. He rose quickly, worried that any more noise would wake Cat. He opened to door to find a haggard looking serving man.

"If yee please, yer Grace. Raven flew in from Lord Bolton, they said it was urgent." He slurred his words distractingly, and a vile odor leaked from his open mouth. Ned reached for the parchment, only to find it blank. Before he could shout or draw his sword, the man had a dagger to his throat, slitting mercilessly. The king felt blood fill his mouth as he began to choke, falling to his knees. The world spun around him as he fought a losing battle to inhale. He saw his wife from the corner of his eye, and he ought he heard her scream his name. Her shout was cut short, no doubt she too had been cut down.

At least we die together, his thoughts were surprisingly clear, I couldn't have lived a moment without her.

If he wasn't choking on his own blood, he would have laughed. Robert outlived me after all, I always knew the would. I just pray the God's allow my children to outlive him.

The world faded away into a cold darkness, but even then he thought he heard another voice. "M'lord, the lil' un's, they're gone, ain't no one in them damn rooms."

The God's are good, thought Ned Stark before leaving the world.

* * *

_AN: I wish I could have written more of that from Arya's POV, cus this is after all an Arya-centric fic, but um... That's just how it came out. It will be better from now on, I hope._

_Your Bones _- Of Monsters and Men


	3. Ghosts That We Knew

"Since when do pirates lay siege to castles?" Robb inquired angrily, "Deepwood Moat is Northern land, mine to protect until father returns."

Arya hated to hear him so distressed, although these days it was unusual to see him otherwise. Since their father had ridden South, all the Kings duties fell on her brother's shoulders, exhausting him to no end. Having his sister around seemed to ease the pressure some, so upon his request she attended all of the council meetings.

Maester Luwin bowed his head, "Indeed. My Prince, there have been rumors... It is said the attack is lead by a young woman, a girl with iron in her veins."

"Asha Greyjoy," the Princess breathed, her eyes narrowing. Tales of the wild lady had reached her even in Dorne. They called her the Kraken's Daughter, a woman who even the roughest of the Iron men respected. She was said to be merciless, born and breed on Pyke to reap and never to sow.

"The God's save us," replied Ser Rodrick Cassel, her father's Hand. "It is said that where Black Wind sails, death follows..."

"Even so," Robb interrupted, "She is a woman of the sea. Her men are not accustomed to walls. If we act hastily, we can break the seige before the castle falls."

The maester agreed, "Ironmen are not known for their patience. Yet we may have a larger problem at hand. If it is indeed Asha who has broken our peace, then more like than not, all of Pyke stands behind her. I'm afraid we have a rebellion at hand."

Robb looked stricken. She knew he wished their father had not left. His cool head and sound council was needed now more than ever. Arya worried for her family. They hadn't received a raven in a week. She had told Robb it wasn't unusual for ravens to go missing, shot down, lost in a storm, or simply flown away. He seemed reassured by her words, but she couldn't quite shake the seed of doubt that had bloomed in her heart.

"Call the banners," her brother said. "It is time we remind those iron bastards who is King in the North."

Just then, sounds of a commotion made their way into the room. Arya jumped to her feet and ran to the window, just in time to see a haggard man drop from his weary horse onto the snow glazed cobblestones. Serving wenches had left their work to come peer at him, gawking and yelling at each other, as two of the kennel boys hoisted him to his feet. She could see a white sigil on his dirty shield, a direworf. Her direwolf. She felt butterflies flip in her stomach.

"Robb," she said urgently, "Come quick, I think it is one of father's guardsmen."

He joined her at the window before storming out of the solar, leaving Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick looking worried. He returned almost immediately, the kennel boys helping the man in behind him. "Bring furs, ale and food, I won't have him fainting out on me," he commanded.

The half frozen rider fell to his knees, partly out of respect, it seemed, and partly from fatigue. "Your Grace," he murmured his voice breaking, "Your father, the King... He's, he's... he, he..."

Robb looked paralyzed, but Arya couldn't sit still. She pulled up the newcomer and shook him. "Spit it out, what news do you bare of our family?" Ser Rodrick pulled her gently but firmly back as Luwin helped the man into a nearby chair.

"I'm so sorry, my Prince, but... he, he's... He's been murdered, your Grace, your Queen mother, brother and sister as well." Once he had started talking there was no stopping him, although Arya barely comprehended his words. "We had stopped at the inn at the crossroads, the royal family and your father's advisers and personal guards slept inside, while most of us made camp on a nearby hill. In the middle of the night, all hell broke lose. The stable was on fire and our horses were panicking. We were all drowsy, barely awake when they attacked. It was a massacre. They rounded all us survivors up after the fighting and locked us up in the great hall. I was one of the lucky ones, got a space near a window." He fidgeted with his cloak. "I heard them talking, saying your siblings had somehow escaped them in the night. They sent riders with hounds looking for Bran and Sansa immediately. An hour or two after dawn, a tracker returned. I'm so sorry miss, I wish I wasn't certain, but I saw it myself... They flayed your sister and brother, and hung them from the inn's rafters as a warning to us, and, I think, to you."

"Boltons," Robb said, "Our own men." His voice as cold as the lands beyond the wall.

"Your Grace, they carried no banners, but some bore a flayed man on their armor and shields," the man assented.

Arya was not shocked. She just felt numb. Numb and irreparably broken. She didn't want to trust this stranger, but his words rang true. It couldn't be, not her father, not her loving, kind King. She couldn't get his image out of her head, her great father, the invincible King Stark. He'd stood so tall under the weirwoods, so proud as the bloody leaves danced around him. He couldn't be gone, he couldn't be. And Bran, so young... How could they skin a child? How could a human be capable of such wickedness? She couldn't even bare to think of Sansa, her beautiful, ladylike sister, hanging dead from some wretched inn.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Robb rush out of the solar, and somehow managed to scramble to her feet and follow him. Her mind was blank, and she couldn't tell where her legs were taking her, but was following him, and that was all that mattered.

Somehow it didn't surprise her when she found herself in the godswood, surrounded once again by the bone white trees with their blood red leaves. She saw her brother draw Ice and raise it, preparing to strike the heart tree. Arya heard herself call his name as if from a great distance, but he stayed his hand all the same, dropping the great sword and grasping her instead. The Princess returned her brother's embrace, holding him tightly, feeling that if she let go, she'd be swept away by emotions.

"I'll kill them all," he half sobbed. "Every one of them. I'll kill them all."

"Not if I do first, Robb."

* * *

She felt as if she was living in a dream, or, more like, a nightmare. Arya couldn't have said how long it had been since she had first heard of her father's death, nor how she and Robb had found their way back to the solar. Her older brother's eyes were red and puffy from tears, but Arya had not shed a single one. She felt as if her heart had stopped beating just as theirs had; her life had left her. Where there once was a princess, now there was just a shell of a girl.

Yet some part of her remained, a nagging voice in her mind that reminded her that the North does not forget. Arya had convinced her brother, now her King, to return, to hear out the messenger. They had justice to enact.

The messenger sat before them, his face red from the warmth of the hearth. The ice had thawed from his cloak, and a ripe smell of horses, blood, sweat, smoke and filth filled the solar. Arya wanted to retch.

He introduced himself as Ser Maryse, a mere hedge knight from White Harbor. He'd been ridding with their father's men for years now. It was an honor for a man of such low birth to serve any King, especially one such as Ned had been.

The Boltons had lead the surviving Stark guards into the yard after Sansa and Bran had been found, and showed them the gruesome bodies. They gave them a choice: either renounce their rulers, or face the same end. Ser Maryse turned beet red when he admitted that he had chosen the former option. He relayed that most of his comrades stayed true, but he didn't stick around to see their fate. He stole a horse and rode away the moment he had a chance. Arya thought he had the courage of a goose and the name of a maiden. She knew she shouldn't blame the messenger for the news he carried, but she disliked him all the same.

"They are following me, most like a few days behind. You know well, your Grace, that a host of men moves far slower than a lone rider. I'd wager they are headed to the Dreadfort."

"They wouldn't dare come near Winterfell," Robb growled.

"I agree, your Grace, most like they will avoid the King's Road. I'd wager a bet that they head east into the Sheepshead Hills rather than chance a meeting on the Kingsroad, although they may not know that you have heard of their treason yet..."

"Then we have the element of surprise on our side," her brother concluded, "Perhaps..."

Arya felt immensely uncomfortable. She wanted to be far away from the stench of the solar, from the turncloak knight, from talks of war and revenge. The princess imagined hopping onto Nymeria's back and just riding, riding to the end of the world. Yet no distance could separate her from her duties, she knew, so she fixed her eyes on the stranger once again.

"Your Grace, don't even think of trying to intercept them out in the open. You are in a far more advantageous position here, behind your walls," the sniveling hedge knight advised her brother, the future King. "They are merciless men, and hard, those Boltons..."

"Ser, I thank you for your service," Robb replied, always the courteous one, "But do not presume to council me on war. It is precisely because they are hard and cruel that I must punish them. You may leave. The servants will find you a room. Go rest, you must be tired."

The man bowed before exiting the solar, leaving Arya alone with her brother. "This is war, Arya." He said, a cold look glazing his eyes, "And justice will be served."

Arya felt a sinking sensation as she watched him leave. The world was crumbling around her.

* * *

Winterfell had always been a place of noises and actions. She couldn't think of a time when there hadn't been sounds of scullery maids gossiping, children screaming, Mikken making steel sing in the forge, horses neighing, the cooks bellowing... Life coursed through it like the hot springs that kept it warm. Yet her home was changed, just as she was. It was the most crowded she could ever remember it being, full of villagers seeking shelter from Ironmen and wildlings. Gage had his hands full in the kitchens, cooking non stop. Fires bloomed around the castle and makeshift longhouses had been erected to hold the overflow of people, yet it still felt empty. Everyone had pain and anger in their eyes, and no longer whispered about trifles. War was on everyone's tongues. Even the horses seemed spooked.

Despite it all, when Robb walked by, they bowed reverently. He was the only thing that gave them courage now, and they loved him with undying devotion, as befit the King in the North. His crowning had been a simple affair, but she could tell it put hope into their people. They had gathered in the godwood, as silent as statues, to witness him bow before the ancient heart tree.

Arya held Rickon in her arms, standing at the front of the possession in a place of honor. Robb said his vows loudly and clearly, pledging on his honor as a Stark to defend the North for the rest of his life. Even Arya felt her heart stir as Maester Luwin placed the ancient crown upon his brow, and Ice into his open palms. She fell on her knees before him, her brother and her King.

She remained in the woods after everyone else had left, thinking of her mother, sister, brother, and most of all, her father. It seemed like years ago that he had stood so tall and unflinching in the very place she now knelt. Before she could stop herself, Arya was sobbing, shaking hysterically. She drew her sword and hacked at a nearby tree until she could no longer support her own weight. The princess lay on the Northern snow covered ground, letting her broken heart mourn.

* * *

_AN: Oh my goodness, I feel so terrible doing this to poor Arya. As if it wasn't tough enough for her in the canon story. :'( _

_I promise it will get better after the next chapter. Maybe._

_Ghosts That We Knew - _Mumford and Sons

_PS: So, embarrassing confession time. Every time I post a chapter, I get super nervous, "Are they going to like it? Am I too lame, too cheesy? Is anyone even reading it?" I basically sit around refreshing the page for a while, hoping for reviews. Ehem. Those of you that review, I love you. Like really, you are the reason I write. Reviews don't have to be nice, I'll appreciate constructive criticism too. I think I might even be tough enough to handle a flame, I dunno, haha, just try me. Anyways, I'll stop begging now. Thanks for reading. :)_


	4. Broken Crown

_AN: Thank you soooo much for the reviews! I can't tell you how much they boosted my self esteem and motivated me to keep writing. I hope you guys still like me enough to review after you read this chapter... Ehem, without any further ado..._

* * *

As dusk fell on Winterfell, Arya forced herself to leave the Godswood. She barely had time to change into a clean gown, splash cold water on her swollen face, and pick the leaves out of her hair when a serving girl came to summon her to the Great Hall. Robb had called upon some of his liege lords several weeks ago, planning to send them West to rid the Stony Shore of raiders. Those that were present: Lady Mormont, the Greatjon, Rickon Karstark, the huge Lord Manderly, and some minor lords, all sat beside the royal family on the raised dais their men filling the rows before them. Robb stood, and a heavy silence fell over the Hall. Arya wasn't sure if it was customary to give speeches at such occasions, but he didn't seem to care.

"You all know why we are gathered here tonight," her brother began, his voice deep, grim, and regal. "Only weeks ago, my Father sat on the Northern throne, and there was peace in our land. Now everything has been warped by war. You have all seen the people who huddle in makeshift camps around my castle. They deserve more than this. I swear to return their homes to them, and more importantly, their peace." Her brothers voice was fueled by a suppressed rage; rising up in a crescendo over the hall. "I am King in the North, as my father was before me, and my grandfather before them. I will serve our realm for as long as there is air in my lungs and ice beyond the Wall. Join me as I purge our realm of traitors and usurpers, and return to my people what is theirs by right."

His voice faded back into the deafening silence. Arya's eyes widened as she saw her brother's liege lords descended from the dais and stood before her brother. The Greatjon, sober for once, was the first to speak.

"Your Grace," he boomed, his voice echoing off the rafters, "You Starks have ruled this here land since the time of the First Men, and you've done a damn good job. I can't count how many times the southron kingdoms have tried to overtake us, but the North has always spit them back up where they belong." He drew his hideous hulking greatsword from his back and laid it before Robb's feet. "You are the only King I mean to bow to. My house and my men are yours to command, my King in the North."

"Aye," called Lord Karstark, following suit with his double edged sword, "Long live King Robb!"

One by one, the remaining bannermen bent their knee to their new King proudly and without hesitation."King of Winter!" "King in the North!" Arya felt the din reverberate in her body, sending jolts of pride through her Northern bones.

"King Robb! King Robb! KING ROBB!"

* * *

It was early morning before the feast had abated and Robb called for her, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrick, and his liege lords to convene for a war council. She could barely stifle her yawns, but Robb was decisive and impulsive, eager to make good on the promise he had made for all the North to hear. The council agreed, for the most part, that Robb was to separate the men he currently commanded into two main hosts. One would ride West, to deal with the Ironmen. Robb made it clear to Lord Umber, who was to lead the attack, that Deepwood Moat was to be kept from Asha at all costs. "It is my land to protect," he declared. "It would not bode well for me to lose a piece of the North as soon as I am crowned, don't you think? I don't care what it takes, keep it ours." The Greatjon swore he would.

The other host had a far more risky task, Arya thought. Robb had relayed Ser Maryse's words to the council. "He believes the Boltons will return to the Dreadford by a road east of the Kingsroad, so as to avoid us. It is only logical..." her brother's eyes nearly sparkled in the firelight as he plotted his revenge, "Yet the going there is slow, and the hill lands are a treacherous terrain. According to the Maester's calculations, they can't hope to reach the White Knife river for two or more days at the least. We are a thousand strong, even without the men I have dispatched to Deepwood Moat. I propose we ride out to meet the Boltons and stop them in their tracks. They will pay for their treason."

"Robb," she cut in before the others could voice their accent, "All you have to go on are the words of a turncloak hedge knight. Behind the walls of Winterfell, you are safe. Stay here, let me ride in your stead. The realm needs a King. It is my revenge as much as yours."

Every eye in the room turned to her red face, the council giving her incredulous and pitying looks. After a small eternity, her brother spoke.

"What kind of King would I be if I hid behind stone walls with my tail between my legs? They murdered them, Arya, I will not rest until the Boltons pay their debt." His voice was kind, but resolute, and she knew there would be no shaking him. "Yet your offer does not go unheard. Ride with me, sister, and help me judge those who wronged our family. Your sword is always welcome by my right side."

Arya chewed her lip hesitantly, painfully aware of the confused looks the lords were sharing. Her mind was a muddled mess. On one hand, her brother, the King, trusted her and respected her enough to not only allow her to fight with him, but gave her the a place of honor in his guard. It was an offer that the princess had only dreamed of. Yet even so, she couldn't shake a feeling of unease. Somehow, Robb's plan seemed flawed, although she couldn't pinpoint what it was that bothered her. Bran would know in an instant, she thought, and Sansa would have the perfect words to convince him. Thinking about them hurt so much that it physically pained her, so she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Robb and Rickon were all the pack she had left, and she would do anything it takes to protect her brothers.

"My Grace, my sword is yours to command," she whispered, bowing her head before her King.

* * *

They were to ride out the next day, leaving two hundred of their best riders as a garrison at Winterfell. Their objective was to keep the stronghold safe, but more importantly, their duty was to protect Rickon. He wished to come along, naturally, but Arya explained to him that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, wishing her father was there to do it for her. Her younger brother pouted and whined until her patience expired. "Rickon, are you a baby to whine so much? At nine I was already betrothed. You're a young man now, start acting like it. A direwolf fears nothing, " she spat out. He ignored her harsh tone and hugged her as tightly as his scrawny arms could. She smoothed his unruly curls away from his small, worried face with a gentleness she didn't know she possessed.

"We are your pack, we will return to you soon."

Arya left him before her resolve wavered, heading directly to her chambers. She prepared herself for the battle quickly and silently, trying to forget her feelings of unease. Her fingers shook as she laced up her riding boots and donned her chain mail. Her dimwitted serving girl screwed up her face disapprovingly at the sight of the princess in armor, but Arya shot her a look that made her turn Lannister crimson. She braided Arya's hair tightly around her scalp, her fingers nimble, her face still hot.

* * *

Arya felt strong as she rode Nymeria though the hilly forest, feeling her muscles flexing beneath her. Robb was to her left, tall and handsome on his dark steed, the sun glinting off his auburn hair as he threw his head back in laughter. His white cloak emblazoned with their direwolf sigil and trimmed with grey fur looked stunning as it billowed out behind him. The princess knew her brother was hiding his pain behind a mask of bravery for his people's sake. He was the every embodiment of a perfect king, she thought proudly.

His men seemed to share her awe. They called him The Young Wolf and were eager to die for his cause. The princess hoped it wouldn't come to that. Torrhen and Eddard Karstark rode to his left, talking of horses, crops, and the all too quickly approaching autumn. Arya envied their lighthearted banter, all she could feel was a nervous excitement that sent butterflies into her stomach. She bit her lip. It's not fear, she told herself, because there is nothing to be afraid of. We have the element of surprise, superior men, and we are the ones choosing the battleground. Bolton's creatures won't even know what hit them.

Somehow, she didn't quite believe herself. They weren't even to the fork in the White Knife river yet, maybe it wasn't too late to change Robb's mind. A cloud passed over the sun as she called to her brother, and the sound of a gust of wind filled her ears. Only no natural breeze was ever accompanied with the crisp twang that followed. No, that sound meant arrows. They had rode straight into an ambush.

The scene around her transformed in a split second. No longer was she surrounded by smiling and chatting men. She was suddenly engulfed in a sea of soldiers. Her brother's men had drawn their swords and brought up their shields, charging up the crest of the hill the arrows had come from. Arya saw archers scattering, but they were immediately replaced by an army to match Robb's.

She galloped on next to her King, Nymeria keeping pace easily with his Northern mount. Arya felt her blood boil, but forced herself to focus on the hoard rushing up to meet them. Her brother's men were by no means soft like the knights Sansa used to gush about, but many of the riders ahead of her looked rougher still. They had skin like boiled weather, worn and dark from exposure to the sun and wind. They sat uneasily in on their mounts, but the battle axes in their hands looked unshakable. Ironmen, she realized with a start, drawing her sword as Robb's vanguard met the foe. She saw Ice glittering from the corner of her eye, beautiful in an eerie way.

Most of the battle was a blur to her. A strange calm descended over Arya as she slashed down and parried, her sword an extension of her arm. She was painfully aware of the sound of horses bearing down on her and the groans of felled men. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and she realized she had nearly bitten through her lip. Arrows darted around the men and horses, crashing blindly into everything, but she paid them little heed. The ground was slippery with blood and mud and she saw lesser horses slip and lose their footing. Arya's shield was becoming a ragged ruin. She just kept fighting off the seemingly endless storm of men who approached her brother. She saw the Karstarks doing the same, until Eddard took a flying ax to the chest, searing through his mail like a knife through ripe cheese. He fell off his horse and was trampled into the bloody mud.

The battle seemed to take a turn downhill from there, both literally and figuratively. The mix of Ironmen and Boltons had come from above, bearing down and them and forcing them back. It was not an advantageous position for the King's army, whose horse were slipping and sliding on the wet ground. A second too late, she saw an evil looking one eyed Ironman swing his ugly battle ax at Robb, hitting him in the side and knocking him of his horse. She swung angrily, truly losing herself to battle fever for the first time. She separated his sword hand from his arm and pressed on, cutting him to pieces as Torrhen Karstark went to her brother's side. When the Ironman was long gone, the princess finally chanced to look upon her brother. He had fallen hard, and his leg had been trampled by a rampaging horse. His face was pale as snow, his once shining hair matted to it with blood and dirt. Yet when she pressed her fingers to his neck, she felt a faint pulse. Arya helped the remaining Karstark boy to haul him onto Nymeria. "This battle is lost," his voice came out broken and coarse, "Ride princess, the Gods be with you."

And so she did, Nymeria pounding into the ground fiercely, dodging arrows and swords. One man, a Bolton, most like, was fool enough to try to stand in their way. The sand steel rode him down, Arya's sword slashing angrily across his neck. The farther they rode, the scarcer the battle became, and the faster Nymeria flew. Arya looked over her shoulder for pursuers, but no Northern horse could hope to compete with Nymeria. The princess doubted that even an arrow could outpace them now. Even with the weight of two soldiers on her back, Arya's steed made good time. Winterfell came into view just as the sun sank over the horizon.

* * *

She rode through the gates calling for help and a kennel boy went running for the Maester. Arya tried to descend from Nymeria gracefully, but her legs buckled underneath her and she fell onto the icy cobblestones. Strong arms carried her into her chambers, and somewhere in the back of her mind she thought she heard someone grunt, "Hodor."

When the Princess came to, she was in her bed, tucked under a mountain of furs. She tried to sit up, but the effort shot stabs of pain through her body and Arya heard herself shriek. Her silly serving girl appeared above her, looking simultaneously frightened and relieved. Such a strange combination, she thought to herself.

Ser Rodrick appeared sometime later with Hodor, and the gentle giant scooped her into his arms as if she was no more than a baby. She tried to ask about Robb and the battle, but her throat was parched and hoarse. He just hushed her and told her she's find out soon enough. The boy carried her into her brothers chambers, placing her carefully in a specially prepared reclining seat near his bed.

Robb was swamped under firs, his face whiter than the sheets. His hair framed his head in in a limp and sweaty halo, but when he turned it to look at her, his eyes were the same brilliant blue as ever, although teary and rimmed with red. She gasped at the sight of him, taking his cold hand in her own small, hot one.

"Robb," she whispered roughly, "You look great."

He started to laugh, but the attempt soon turned sour as his chest shook and he let out a cough that racked his whole body. The princess squeezed his limp hand in her own, and began to talk of the battle, because she couldn't bear to bring up anything else.

"How could they have known we were coming, Robb? It's not possible. How did they even get there so quickly?" Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks in hot torrents. "Those savage men with the Boltons, they were Ironmen, weren't they? Oh Robb, what a mess we are in... How are we ever going to restore peace to the North?"

He looked at her with kindness in his eyes. She didn't think he was strong enough to move, let alone speak, but somehow, he managed.

"Arya, if anyone can do it, you can," the King forced himself to say, each word a battle of its own.

"No, Robb, you'll get better, we'll do it together, I know we will." She said forcefully, as if her words could make it true.

He gave her the tiniest of smiles.

"I love you, Arya."

* * *

They placed him in the crypts later not a week later. The small folk were restless, mad with fear and pain. Their King, hero, and idol was gone. They had no one to carry their hopes, no one to fight for them. Arya knew they felt alone and abandoned, just as she did. She went to the godswood, but she couldn't bring herself to pray. The princess stared back into the heart tree's bloody eyes, and wondered why the Gods weren't there for her when she needed it most. She couldn't pray and she couldn't cry. She wondered why her heart went on beating when her siblings were naught but statues in the crypts below Winterfell. It hardly seemed fair. Arya didn't feel like she belonged in the world of the living any more than they did. I'm already more a statue than a girl, she thought.

Maester Luwin found her there, curled into a ball among the weirwood roots. "Arya, you are needed at the castle," he said, his voice kind. "We have a crowning to prepare for."

She sighed. She knew the North needed a ruler, and Rickon would be a fine King someday. Or so she hoped. It just didn't seem right to have another crowning so soon after Robb's. "Yes, I suppose I should be there for my brother," she said dutifully, but begrudgingly, pulling herself to her feet.

"Princess, that is not what I meant. Before his death, Robb named you heir. You are to be Queen in the North."

The ground rushed up to meet her.

* * *

_AN: Woah, this chapter turned out long (edit, it seemed longer when I first posted, now it seems kinda puny). Who was happy for the Hodor cameo? I know I was. _

_The battle scenes were so hard to write. Eek. Hope Arya wasn't too OC for y'all. Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine how she'd react cus her canon story line it so different. If you have any feedback on that, I'd really appreciate it, I really do want to improve. Or any feedback at all actually. Or maybe you just want to say hi? Review, pretty please! _

_Broken Crown - _Mumford and Sons (Babel, the album it's from, always gives me ASoiaF feels)

_PS: OMG, ROMANCE IS COMING UP SOON, I'M SO EXCITED! _


	5. The Lucky Ones

_AN: Sorry for the lateish update. I had a crazy busy weekend. The chapter turned out too long, so I split it into two. Guess the romance will have to wait a little. Sorry for the false advertising. :( Second part should be up tomorrowish though. AND OMG! THE REVIEWS! Thank you so much for your opinions, guys! :)_

* * *

"Ser Maryse," she repeated."Bring him to me."

Arya was frustrated. She never wanted to be Queen. A lady knight, her brother's guard, an adventurer, an assassin... anything but a queen. Yet there she was, Arya the Unlikely, the Stark child who should have had the least claim to the throne. Her people whispered about her, that she knew all too well. They saw her as a stranger, a southron princess. Dorne was never my home, she thought, I have too much winter in my veins. Smallfolk could whisper themselves sick, but Arya was a direwolf, through and through.

Ser Maryse had led her brother into a trap, she was sure. He must have lied about the location and timing of Bolton's men, there was no other explanation. She briefly considered that he simply may have been mistaken, confused by the attack. She quickly dismissed the idea. He lied, and that was the end of it. As Queen, Arya's first act would be to repay the Throne's debts. Starting with the one she owed to the treasonous hedge-knight.

"What do you mean you can't find him?" she stared down the serving girl, her voice shaky with poorly suppressed rage. The Queen shifted her attention to the elderly Maester sitting on the dais beside her, "Has any new information turned up about him?"

"No, your Grace, nothing. No one seems to know about a hedge-knight from Oldharbor."

"If he was really one of my father's riders, more would turn up." She knew most of the men who could have spoken for him if he was indeed her father's man were dead or lost, but the few who had found their way back to Winterfell knew nothing. Her Hand, Ser Rodrik, once master-at-arms, had stroked his impressive, snow white cheek whiskers ponderously, but couldn't for the life of him remember a hedge-knight called Ser Maryse ever being in Winterfell before. He said the man had looked familiar, but he couldn't be sure. Arya sighed. Why couldn't anything ever be easy? The hedge-knight's trial would wait, but it would come. She would not rest until the traitor was dead.

"The North does not forget," she declared, " Sooner or later, he will face justice."

She put the her worries aside, and dutifully dealt with the matters of her smallfolk. War or no war, winter was coming, and preparations must be made. Autumn was ever a fearful time, and one knew which harvest would be the last. It fell on the Queen's shoulders to instruct her liege lords as to the proportions that should be set aside. To her surprise, Arya found she had a good head for figures when she put her mind to it. Even so, it required much talking and haggling. Her neck was stiff and her feet were falling asleep, but she went on, refusing to show any sign of weakness.

It was then that a messenger entered, bowing before her.

"Two ravens have just arrived, your Grace," he simpered. Dark wings, dark words. "The first is from King's Landing. King Robert is dead, and his rightful heir, Prince Gendry, is to be crowned..."

"I care little about whose royal arse graces the Iron Throne." Arya was impatient. "What does this Prince Gendry want?"

"Permission to travel through the realm," the boy replied, looking shocked at the Queen's language. "It says he wishes to visit the Wall."

She sighed. The last thing she needed now was southron royalty meddling with her affairs. Arya's hands were full as it was.

The Maester spoke, "Your Grace, I know you bear no love for the Iron Throne, but the Wall has sworn to take no part in any of our affairs. It would not do good to restrict him. The Gods know we can't afford to make another enemy, and a powerful one, at that."

"You speak true, Luwin," the Queen replied regretfully, "As much as it pains me to do this, I suppose we must let the man go on with his silly adventures. Advise him to come by sea, I'd rather he sees as little of this war as possible. What of the second letter?"

"My Queen, a raven from the west," the messenger sounded stupidly pleased with himself. "We hold Deepwood Moat; Asha's men are defeated."

Arya's eyes tore across the parchment with a fervor. Deepwood Moat fell to the Ironmen before the Greatjon even neared the castle. Arya recalled that the harvest had been poor, and since all the villagers had crowded to the stronghold, the food ran out nearly immediately. It was a choice between death and surrender, and they chose the later. Greatjon took it back, but a castle is far easier to defend from the inside, and the cost was... unbearable. She'd be surprised if he even had the numbers left to defend it.

"One more such victory, and we will lose the war," she groaned, betraying her frustration. The council wore Arya out more than sparring or riding Nymeria. Her thoughts flickered to her father, who once occupied the Throne she sat in. She now understood why he couldn't spend as much time with her as she would have liked. Ruling was no simple matter.

* * *

Winter is coming. Arya shivered. As a child, her family words had been just that - words. Now they were something more. She found herself repeating them over and over in her head during council meetings, every time a cold wind blew in her face in the practice yard, and even in her dreams. It wasn't just about her anymore. The lives of many people were in her small, pale hands.

The war was far from over. The battle at the White Knife had devastated her brother's army, but Bolton's men were not unscathed either. She knew it was only a matter of time until they regrouped and struck again.

The Queen was sparring with some of the garrison when Ser Rodrik found her. Seeing his familiar face in the training yard brought a flood of memories rushing back. He'd been the master of arms at Winterfell before he was named Hand of the Queen, and she trusted him as much as she dared to trust anyone. From the time she took her first steps, he had known she would be a fighter. Cassel had given her her first sword, a tiny wooden thing, no larger than a stick, but certainly blunter. He regretted it only a few hours later when her Lady Mother had caught her sparring with her precious rose bushes. It felt like centuries ago to Arya.

His expression told her what to expect. As he approached, the Hand nervously tugged at his cheek whiskers. That never meant good news. The Queen braced herself for the onslaught, masking her fear behind a stone face and a spine like an iron rod. Her sparring partners wordlessly melted away, leaving them alone in the courtyard.

"Your Grace, our scouts report that the enemy is on the move again. A host of several thousand Ironmen and Boltons approach. They're like to be at our gate within days..." He gulped.

"Very well," she interrupted, her voice strong, calmer than it had any right to be. "Inform the men. See that they are prepared."

His eyes were sad. "Queen Arya, head my council, abandon the castle, take your brother and flee under the protection of the reserve. There are yet those who will welcome Starks and give you shelter. We can always return when our foes are diminished. You know we can not hope to fight a war with only a couple hundred men."

"I am no craven, though I might be a fool," she murmured, her voice low. "I will find a way,"

"I beg of you again, Arya, flee, take the boy and go before it is too late."

"Open your eyes, Ser Rodrik. If I run, we will never be safe again. This is my land. My home. The day I run will be the day I die. Winterfell belongs to the Starks, and the Starks to Winterfell. We will fight." Her look bore no disdain but it was as cold and hard as ice. "The injured that are strong enough to hold a bow will take the walls. The serving men as well, and any woman who wishes to fight. The North is mine."

She turned her back and strode away proudly, her head held high, hoping he could not see the tremor in her hands.

* * *

Not three days later, Theon Greyjoy's men had surrounded Winterfell. The Queen held them at bay for days, her archers meticulously manning the walls. She sensed him growing restless around her stronghold, and with each passing hour the enemy pressed harder. Deep down, Arya knew this could not last.

Her home dated back to the Age of Heroes, and there were passages under the stone that were thousands of years old. She had men smuggling supplies into Winterfell on a daily basis, but at a high cost. Arya knew she couldn't hope to sustain the thousands of smallfolk that were camping within her walls. Each day some of her archers perished, and there were already far too few. The Queen held a stronghold of villagers, not soldiers. Unless she took action, she knew they would inevitably fall.

* * *

She quivered as her serving girl pulled her hauberk over her chest, the cold steel biting at the bare skin of her neck. I wonder if she will mourn my death, the queen mused. Her people bore her no great love, she knew that well. They wanted a perfect King, not an unruly girl; they wanted Robb.

Yet he was dead. She had replayed the battle in her head a thousand times, wondering if she could have saved her brother. Arya would not, could not, forgive herself for her inadequacy as a guard, and neither could most of the Northmen. She could see the hatred in their eyes. The Queen could tell they wished it was her who was in the crypt, and Robb who lived. They had loved him nearly as much as she did.

I am Queen of Winter, as impenetrable as the Wall, Arya reminded herself. I will do my duty, no matter what they say. She touched the great sword of Valyrian steel for reassurance and grasped Nymeria's girdle. Somehow, she had made it to the yard. The Queen made herself stand tall, facing her garrison and the raggedy looking band of young villagers Her fighting men were few, no more than a hundred men, but they were some of the best the North had to offer, and she did not intend to let then fall unblooded, lost to fire and Ironmen. They held no great respect for her, but were bound to Winterfell and the North by their blood and their honor, as was she. In that, they were inseparable.

The Queen was more worried for the other group, the youth. Most were older than her, and all had been volunteers, yet even so she hated subjecting them to danger. The alternative is to wait, and die like lambs on a chopping block, Arya reminded herself. If we fall now, at least we die putting up a fight.

The light had just faded to the west as she guided her sand steed to the passage. The night was dark. The moon was new and even the light of the great Northern stars seemed dimmer. Mayhaps the Gods had listened to her prayers after all.

Arya was never one for speeches and she knew no words could win over frozen hearts. She silently hefted Ice over her head, signalling for her people to rally. The Queen walked into the narrow tunnel, leading Nymeria by her bridle, never looking back, praying the Gods would let her see her home again.

* * *

It hadn't been as hard as she expected. The tunnel emerged a mile away from the outer fringe of the enemy camp. Her young vagrants scattered immediately, moving silently among the ranks of men, cutting horses loose and forever silencing overly diligent night guards. She had followed with her men, making as much noise as possible. The Boltons and Ironmen were half asleep when she struck, taking them by surprise. With their horses loose and panicking, confusion struck. No doubt they had thought Arya's men were a new Northern host, come to relieve Winterfell. Once they started breaking, the Queen knew the battle had been won.

She couldn't believe her luck when one of her village boys brought her Theon Greyjoy himself. Arya hadn't seen him for years, yet she still recognized his dark features and his look of wry contempt. He'd been found in his tent with a woman, and had been captured before he even had time to dress properly. He was bound and thrown over a horse, taken to Winterfell as a hostage yet again.

When they finally returned, dawn was breaking. Arya could scarcely keep her consciousness as she swayed in her saddle. She was drenched in blood - some her own, some Greyjoy's, a layer of which had frozen over her cold mail. Mucus, grime, and gore covered her helmet. She wondered if ever a Queen had looked less regal. Yet she was alive, and most of her men too. The siege on Winterfell had been broken, and they would live to see another day. The Gods were good.

She raised her eyed as the portcullis was draw up, opening the entrance into the stronghold, and for the first time since the night, truly saw her men's faces. They were worn and bloody, stained with war fever and sweat, yet their eyes were radiant, and they all trailed upon her. Their eyes spoke of solemn respect.

As she trotted into the courtyard, a sound like crashing waves rushed to meet her. All around her, the smallfolk of the North stood, cheering. In her confusion it took her several seconds to comprehend their chants. "Arya!" They cried, "Queen in the North!" And all around her, a sea of people knelt, some throwing roses under Nymeria's hooves. "Arya! Arya!" The cries filled her ears, her mind and her heart, and for a moment, she was no longer grieving; for a moment, she felt herself melt.

Summoning the last of her strength, she lifted Ice into the air, slicing through the the crisp morning air. It was on fire, burning in the early sunlight.

So this is what it feels like to be Queen, she thought, surrounded by the song of her people, by blood, Ice, and fire.

* * *

_AN: So, did I disappoint you? Any theories on Ser Maryse? Was this too boring? Too predictable? Anyways, thanks a million for reading. I already love you for that, but if you review, I'll love you more._

_K, so I thought I'd answer a few of the questions I've been getting._

_1. Where's Jon?_

_Jon isn't in this story. I love him as much as anyone, I swear, but a) I don't think I could do him justice in my writing; b)I feel lik Martin does enough with him already. I write about Arya cus I'm plowing my way through AFFC and ADWD and she really doesn't seem to get much attention; c) this fic is basically me exploring Arya's character, and I think if I put anther one of my favorite characters into it, that would be hard for me to do. (This goes for Lyanna too.)_

_Also, in a world without dragons Targaryens would have had a very different history, and assuming R+L=J, Jon may never have been born. (A sad, sad world without Jon)_

_2. Jon x Arya?_

_I love them both to death as siblings/maybe cousins, but I don't really get the romantic connection. I mean, it might happen in the cannon story, but until then, I just don't ship it. Soz._

_3. Um, Nymeria is a horse?_

_Yes, I know... I messed with some stuff. Sorry. :P_

"The lucky ones" is a line from the chorus of _Youth_, by Daughter (If you haven't heard it, listen to it. Seriously. It's freaking gorgeous and heartbreaking.)


	6. Fire and Ice

Arya rode through the night, grateful for the overcast sky and the distant howl of wolves. The Northern wind assaulted her ruthlessly, whipping her hair and Nymeria's mane against her face. She knew it would throw off their scent if anyone was fool enough to ride after them. The Bastard of Dreadfort was gathering his men even now. The Queen shuttered to imagine what a real attack would be like if Theon's siege had only been a probe to gauge her strength, as he had said.

I hope I left an impression, she thought to herself. The Greyjoy had certainly seemed shocked when brought before her. She had nearly smiled when his customary mask of smug contempt was replaced by a look of astonishment, embarrassment, and perhaps a shred of respect. He couldn't believe his host had been crushed by a 16 year old girl, a hundred odd knights, and a group of vagabonds.

But determination and cunning could only take Arya so far. She needed men. Many of her bannermen's armies had been decimated, while others had opted to hide behind their walls and wait the war out. She would have held it against them, but a part of her wished she could lock herself away from the world as well. Arya didn't want to trust the Greyjoy hostage, but if he had spoken true and she ignored it, her kingdom stood no chance. Theon had told her that while Ramsay led men onto the field, it was his father who was the true mastermind behind the rebellion. She had suspected as much, but it was what came next that truly terrified the Queen. Her captive told her that the older Bolton had been trying to sway her liege lords against her. The Greatjon was hers, without a doubt; Maege Mormont was as unshakable as a bear; and the Glovers owed her a blood debt for Deepwood Moat.

It was the Karstarks' loyalty that plagued her sleepless nights. Since his two of his oldest sons lost their lives at the White Knife, Lord Rickon had supplied her no reinforcements. She could only pray that he kept his men close only for protection from the nearby Dreadfort. He couldn't possibly turn a blind eye to the cause Eddark and Torrhen Karstarks died for. All the same, the Queen craved reassurance. If the Karstarks turned, she would lose the east completely. On the other hand, if Arya was backed by the might of the House, it could only be a matter of time before she was victorious.

The Queen and her riders arrived at Karhold on a cold, windy afternoon on the third day of their travels. The fearsome stone stronghold loomed ahead, as dark as the night-black, sunburst emblazoned banners that flew over it. She had decided not to warn Lord Rickard of her visit, and rode with the most impressive guard she could muster. Arya refused to be taken unawares again, resolving that from now on, she would be the one causing surprises.

The portcullis gave off an eerie groan as it was drawn up to let her in. Hooves thudded against the wood of the Karhold drawbridge, beating out a taboo in time with Arya's heartbeat. The Queen was never one for diplomacy. I'd rather be on the field with Ice in my hand and wind in my hair than haggling with some stubborn old man, she thought to herself. Never the less, she swallowed her misgivings, steeled her face, and ran her hand against the length of the great-swords scabbard for courage.

Lord Rickard welcomed her in his keep, a long, dark, smokey room that felt as if it had been hewed out of a cave. He sat before her in a great chair made of weirwood, surrounded by men in black cotton patterned with the Karstark sunburst. He did not rise or kneel when she entered.

"What brings you hither?" He glowered at her from his seat, his long, unwashed beard doing little to hide his grief ridden face. She felt her stomach rise to her throat, but pushed it back down, returning his glare with her icy grey eyes. "It doesn't seem right for a little lady such as yourself to be riding across the North in these here troubled times."

"I am no Lady." Her voice was sharp as Valyrian steel and cold as ice. It betrayed nothing of her fear or uncertainty. "I am Arya, of House Stark, First of My Name, Ruler of the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and rightful Queen in the North. I expect you to address me as such. I rode with your sons at the White Knife. They fought and died bravely, loyal to their King till their last breath. I've come to tell you of them, to honor their memories and pay my respects to the man that raised them. I did not doubt for a moment that you would prove to be as noble as Eddard and Torrhen, but now I am forced to ask you, do I have reason to question your loyalty, Lord Rickard?"

He stared at her, his hollow eyes unreadable in his dark face. It seemed he did not know what to make of the skinny girl standing before him, her back as straight as an arrow, her hair a messy halo around her face. She gripped Ice's hilt, gaining the smallest bit of reassurance from it's cold bite. The Queen could almost feel her guards behind her tense up, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

The Northman rose, towering before her, tall and formidable, wrapped in what appeared to be a bear skin. They never broke eye contact, and the stagnant air around her buzzed with tension. He drew his hideous greatsword, and the Queen's riders stepped forward shielding her. Even then, Arya stood unflinching, watching the huge man, sizing him up in her mind. The sword clattered down at her feet, and the Lord lowered himself before her, his forehead pressed to the dank stone.

"Forgive me, your Grace," he muttered, "I have not been myself since the White Knife... I and mine are yours to command."

He ordered a table be set for the Queen and her men, and together they broke bread and drank wine. Only then did Arya allow herself to breath freely again, knowing she was protected by the most ancient codes of hospitality. They spoke of war until late in the night, and when matters were settled Arya mouthed a silent prayer to the Gods. Things could not have gone better.

* * *

She broke her fast before the sun rose, and departed not long after. They made good time, riding up along the Last River rather than risking a run in with the Boltons. The sun was high in the sky when Arya whistled to stop her men. She could see smoke rising from the woods not a mile down the river. She sent out scouts, who reported that a small group of Bolton scouts were camped out in the clearing up ahead. The Queen sighed. She had no appetite for needlessly shedding blood, but should they discover her presence and live to tell the tale, more like than not, she would e the one bleeding.

Her men surrounded the clearing, silent as shadows. They charged when she gave the signal. It was a small group of Dreadfort men, longing around the fire, careless and relaxed. The skirmish was short. The Queen herself brought down three men, sustaining only a shallow cut to her calve. Her men were finishing things up when another party rode out from the woods, their leader vaulting off his steed and drawing his steel against the Boltons.

Though the newcomers seemed to be on her side, the Queen refused to be taken unawares. Arya moved quicker than anyone would have thought possible, and in a split second, her dagger was on the new man's neck. His blue eyes widened in shock. "I yield, I yield." A quick look around told her that his men were similarly subdued. It was only then that Arya recognized the golden stag embroidered on their garments.

She groaned as she lowered her weapon and stepped back. "Gendry Baratheon... What in the world did you think you were doing?"

"I, uh..." He rubbed his neck where she had nicked it, avoiding her piercing gaze. "We heard sounds of a skirmish from the woods. When I saw your men fighting Boltons, I thought you might need a hand."

The Queen finally laughed, her chest heaving, her breath puffing up in the freezing air.

"I'm Arya Stark," she managed to get out between guffaws. "I clearly do not need some southron king's assistance."

"I see that," he said with a brave grin. "Pleased to finally make your acquaintance."

Arya's veins still coursed from the excitement of the fight, and she felt good natured as she bound up her wounded leg. Her men and the Baratheons were finishing hauling the corpses into the river and staunching the cookfire when the King came to her again.

"Your Grace, it would be my honor to accompany you to Winterfell if it would please you. My father always held your family in great esteem, and I wish to pay my respects to your dead."

She chewed her lip hesitantly, wondering what her father would have done. The Southroner looked so sincere that Arya doubted the young man knew how to lie at all. A few extra swords at her side wouldn't hurt either. "Very well, King Gendry," a small smile passed over her face. "But next time there's a fight, try to save me in a more timely manner."

She tied the bandage and jumped onto Nymeria, careful not to show her pain. The men followed, and they were on their way again, flying through the Northern forest. Arya shifted in her saddle to steal a look at the King riding beside her. Gendry was gallant in his dark armor, a heavy cloak of Baratheon black and gold hung carelessly over his broad shoulders. Its ermine trim caught the light, shining like spun gold. Sansa would have swooned at the sight of him, she mused, but the thought of her sister nearly brought tears to her eyes. She missed her more than she would have thought possible.

Arya gave Nymeria a kick, biting her lip at the pain it sent shooting through her leg. She galloped off, leaving the King and her men struggling to keep up.

* * *

They camped that night in a hollow to the north of Long Lake. The Queen briskly barked out the necessary orders, appointed the watch, and unfurled her pack near one of the small fires they had chanced. She hoped the dark of night and the rough trench walls would shield them from enemy scouts. Arya let the fire warm her cold muscles, slowly allowing herself to relax. Before she could drift to sleep, Gendry joined her. His presence jolted her wide awake. He was filthy from the long ride, but even so couldn't help noticing how undeniably attractive he was.

Arya felt almost lightheaded when he grinned at her, all glistening teeth, smile lines, dimples, and warmth.

"You fight well, Your Grace," he ventured. "I've never seen a lady so fierce before."

She wasn't sure if he was in earnest or in jest, but she replied hotly all the same. "I'm no lady."

"I meant no offense," his reply was sheepish. "I'm just curious about where you learned to wield a sword."

Arya almost laughed at him again. He was blushing a bit in the firelight, looking stupid and shy. It was disarming in the strangest way. Before watch had changed she found herself spilling the details of her life to the man beside her. She told him of her time in Dorne; of her betrothed and the pox that took him; of Nymeria; and even of the family she once had. Her words caught in her throat when she spoke of Robb, the brother who had loved her for who she was. Arya could have sworn she saw Gendry reach out to grasp her quivering hand, pulling back only at the last moment.

The King liked to listen to her more than he liked to talk, but occasionally he'd tell her of his life as well. She didn't pity him, but she did understand the fear and loneliness he had felt as heir to the Iron Throne. She was no stranger to fear and loneliness.

The moon was high in the sky and all that was left of the fire was a pile of embers by the time they started yawning. She shivered as a Northern wind roughly kissed her face, wrapping her furs closer around her slight body.

"Perhaps you would take my cloak, your Grace," Gendry offered, a perfect model of kingly grace, except for his stupid look.

"I don't want your silly cloak," Arya said with a lighthearted laugh as she rolled away from him."What is a Queen of Winter if she can't stand a little breeze?"

She slept soundly that night, for once not dreaming of Boltons and Ironmen. Instead Arya saw herself standing under a giant weirwood as Gendry gently draped his Baratheon cloak over her shoulders. This time, however, she didn't reject it.

* * *

Ser Rodrik and Rickon met them at the gate to Winterfell. Her brother looked as wild as she felt, his clothes dirty and leaves in his hair. Arya guessed that he'd been playing with the dogs again. The boy greeted King Gendry with a fierce snarl, but warmed up to him soon enough, sticking to the man like a shadow. Her Northmen were not so easily swayed. They trusted no Southroners, and most of all not the King of the Iron Throne. But Arya had won their respect, and they trusted their Queen as they had trusted her father before her. Ned had been a hard man, but honorable, and they had never doubted his judgement. If he could befriend King Robert, there was no reason his daughter could not trust his son.

They dinned together in the Great Keep. A singer had come up from the south, hoping he could win the new Queen's favor through song. He strummed his harp and praise her beauty, valor and bravery. Arya hadn't known what to think, she had never been one for music or for flattery. But when Gendry began to laugh his groundshaking, infectious laugh, she couldn't help but join in. The Queen gasped when he swung her to her feet and danced her around the hall. She blushed Lannistor crimson, and was about to pull away when he whispered, "No, your Grace, it does your men good to see their Queen merry. It raises morale, trust me."

She wasn't sure if she did, and couldn't bring herself to leave him regardless. For the first time since the war began, the Greet Keep was filled with laughter and dancing couples. More than that, for the first time since Robb's death she was really and truly happy. She felt herself melt into his arms. Nothing had ever felt more natural.

* * *

The next day, she took Gendry down to the crypts to pay his respects. It had been a difficult feat for them to get away from Rickon. Her brother would have liked to follow them, but Arya knew that the crypts only fueled his wild behavior and made him half mad with sadness. She was grateful to the King for making her brother happy again, and she wanted it to last as long as possible.

Gendry and Arya stood alone in the lantern light, looking up into the faces of her ancestors. "Ned Stark was a great man. My own father told me stories about him nearly everyday. He admired him more than anything else, I think. He wished he could have been the King that your father was..."

The Queen felt tears well up in her eyes. She couldn't bear to think that this was all her father was now, a statue in the crypts of Winterfell. All men die, she told herself.

"The North will never know such a great ruler again," was all she could say, her voice heavy with emotion.

Gendry gave her a strange look. "Your Grace, I do not doubt that it will flourish under your rule," he murmured. "The people love you, you were born to be a Queen. You will do great things."

She felt uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. She didn't dare to touch him, but she could feel the heat of his body, his steaming breath on her pale cheek. Arya's heart hammered under her soft deerskin tunic.

"Please, Arya," he whispered softly against her dark hair, gently cupping her face in his huge, rough hand. "I am expected to take a wife but now that I've met you, I will never be happy with another woman. Marry me. Together we could avenge your family, join the kingdoms and give the realm an age of peace and prosperity like it has never known. Be my queen. I swear I'll love you till my dying day."

Her resolve took a blow, nearly faltering. She could almost see herself in his arms, in his cloak.

"I can't. Really, King Gendry, such proposals should be made formally, in the Great Hall, before witnesses, and preferably by an envoy; not in person in my family crypt. You should know better," she blurted out, her voice dry.

"And would that change your answer?"

She wanted to step back, run away deeper into the darkness, away from his burning heat. More than that, she longed to step towards him, into the arms that she knew yearned to hold her. She wanted his fire to consume them both. If she was just Arya, mayhaps she would have; but she was a Stark of Winterfell, she would show no weakness.

"No, your Grace, never."

He left her in the darkness, taking all his warmth with him. She shivered in the icy crypt, feeling the weight of her words. Arya stared up into the faces of the Starks who had come and gone before her, and she knew she was right. If they married, they would surely be happy and bring age of peace to the realm. But at what cost? To marry the king of the South would mean to surrender not only her own independence but also her kingdom's. While they lived, the North would flourish, but what would come next? Arya could not know. Her duty was to her people. Neither her knees nor her honor would bend to Gendry, she resolved.

He is a summer child, and winter is coming.

* * *

_AN: Uggg. Such an angsty chapter. I've been feeling a bit discouraged recently. Haha, reading A Feast for Crows reminds me that I'll never have the writing prowess of Martin. Or any, really... Oh well, I'll keep practicing regardless. As always, thanks a million for your feedback, I appreciate it to no end. Let me know what you think about this chapter too, ok? Any advice/complaints/compliments are hugely welcome. _

_Fire and Ice - _Within Temptation (I keep telling myself I got over Within Temptation when I started high school... Apparently not.)


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